


Teach Me To Relax, and I’ll Teach You To Be Bad

by CC99trialanderrorgirl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Ends sexy and positively though, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Hux has social anxiety, Hux is Pleasantly Surprised, Kylo Ren is Nice, M/M, Making Out, Or boyfriendship, Social Anxiety, not particularly angsty, speech porn, they help each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 20:09:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12660555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CC99trialanderrorgirl/pseuds/CC99trialanderrorgirl
Summary: Hux has social anxiety. Kylo finds out.It’s not the disaster Hux thinks it will be, though.More gratuitous speech porn, some hurt/comfort, and some delicious heavy kissing and frottage at the end.





	Teach Me To Relax, and I’ll Teach You To Be Bad

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for social anxiety. I have social anxiety myself and I found this to be positive and therapeutic, but I wanted to put a fair warning, as I don't want to upset anybody! Hopefully this story is a happy fun thing though for people, and maybe also a reminder that you're never alone. Some elements of of this are based on my own life and experiences, and how, though it may sound kind of pat, my relationship with my boyfriend has honestly been one of the single most helpful things for my social anxiety. So I made Kylo and Hux that for each other :)

He steps out in front of his troops, all lined up in neat rows before him. The dais is high; he is acutely aware of his own visibility. But in this moment, he reminds himself, he is not Armitage Hux. He is General Hux, pillar of the First Order, signifier of a far greater purpose than his single, solitary life. He represents the might and superiority of an entire institution. In this moment, radiating controlled command, he _is_ the First Order. He hardens his gaze, sweeping it over the thousands and thousands who stand under his command, and speaks.

“ _Today is the end of the Republic. The end of a regime that acquiesces to disorder. At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic lies to the galaxy while secretly supporting the treachery of the loathsome Resistance.”_

He can feel his face turning red, knows that his lips are stretched too tightly over his teeth. He can’t care. He raises his voice even louder, balling his hands into fists at his sides. He is careful not to allow his spine to relax, instead reigning in his precise posture even more tightly as he screams.

 

_“This fierce machine which you have built, upon which we stand, will bring an end to the Senate, to their cherished fleet. All remaining systems will bow to the First Order and will remember this as the last day of the Republic!”_

He gives the order, and he knows his eyes are too bright as he watches the beams spread through the sky. _“Fire!”_

He doesn’t blink, too afraid that if he does, the moisture in his eyes will fall down his cheeks, and he can’t have his troops see that. His mouth is slack, wide open with awe, but every muscle in his jaw somehow remains tense. In fact, every last muscle in his body is tensed to the breaking point. He is a man on the edge, and he knows it. After the first planet is destroyed in a spectacular shower of sparks and light, he turns on his heel, greatcoat billowing around him, and marches off the dias, nodding to the officers who salute him as he strides past.

 

His nails are digging into his palms now; he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there would be deep gouges in his skin were he not wearing his gloves. As soon as he hits the corridor leading to the officers’ sleeping chambers, it begins. His stride slows and his gait falters. It is hard to breathe; it feels like he can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs. Looking down, he sees that his hands are shaking. He has no doubt that he is blushing furiously; his skin is so pale that it always shows. Besides, he can feel the heat of it on his face, and it makes him walk faster once again, desperate to be alone when the full impact of this hits. He stumbles again, having to lean against the wall this time to support his shaking limbs.

 

He hates this, hates feeling weak. Realizing that there is no way he will make it to his rooms in time, he doubles back and is just about to shut himself into a small server room when he hears it. The telltale heavy footfalls, the almost inaudible swish of long robes sweeping over the durasteel floor. Ren.

 

Frantically, Hux tries the door, but it doesn’t open. He tries the code again, entering it incorrectly once again in his frazzled state. Panicking now, he feels one hand, unbidden, rising to his collar, tugging at it. He can’t breathe. It takes him a moment to recognize that he isn’t being Force choked, that this is all his own body’s doing. The realization undoes him completely. Suddenly, he’s sliding to the floor, shaking too badly to stand. Back against the blasted impenetrable door, he pulls his knees up to his chest, tries his best to ride it out and prays to whatever power Ren believes in that this waking nightmare will come to a swift end.

 

It doesn’t. Instead, Ren rounds the corner, and the last vestiges of Hux’s self-respect die a speedy death. Eighteen years. _Eighteen years_ , and no one has ever seen him like this. He’s managed to hide it from every roommate, every partner, every officer he’s ever had under his command. Of course – _of course_ it’s Kylo Fucking Ren who ruins his perfect streak.

 

“Ren,” he croaks out, because what is the point of pretending now? Ren has seen him, is just standing there at the end of the corridor, head cocked to one side like some kind of demonic puppy, mask concealing any hint of what he might be thinking from Hux. Then again, knowing Ren and their antagonistic relationship, Hux steels himself for the worst. Digging his fingers into the soft spot behind his knees, he forces one full breath, and then another, and through what can only be attributed as an act of sheer will, Hux manages to pull himself upright. He’s still swaying a little, and the edges of his vision are concerningly fuzzy and dark, but he will be _damned_ if he lets Ren see him at his worst.

 

He learned long ago to take his punishment like a man, and he will damn well face this the best way he knows how – head on, chin up, and spine straight.

 

“Ren,” he says again, hating the way his voice wavers. His body is still shaking minutely, too, but his hands are the worst. He hides them behind his back, trying for a facsimile of parade rest. He knows he isn’t quite achieving it.

 

Ren moves forward with careful, measured steps, again and again until he standing just a few feet away from Hux. He reaches up and removes the helmet. Underneath, for once, his expression is unreadable, but he seems to be concentrating on something. Hux fights the urge to shift his weight, and thankfully wins. He tips his chin up further, trying his best to scowl at Ren in a display of defiance and distain, but he knows the shaking of his limbs and the blush on his checks and the twitching around his eyes are all conspiring against him.

 

“You’re embarrassed,” Ren says suddenly, his eyes seeming to focus once more as he looks at Hux, _really_ looks at him, this time.

 

“Or, no –” Ren corrects himself, “You’re afraid of being embarrassed, is that it?”

 

Hux bites the inside of his cheek, and the temporary shock of pain overrides his disorientation, allowing him to glare daggers at Ren.

 

Ren appears unaffected, if a little impressed.

 

Suddenly, he turns around. Hux hears it, too – the distinctive sounds of stormtrooper boots and revelry. The celebration is moving indoors. He should be celebrating with him, Hux knows. He just destroyed the Hosnian system, just dealt the Resistance a critical blow. Not to mention the rousing success of his speech. It was easily the pinnacle of his career thus far, so why does he feel like throwing up?

 

Alarmed by the sudden presence of bile in his throat and the thought that his subordinates might catch him in this state, Hux turns his back to Ren and scrambles down the hall. Or tries to. He doesn’t get very far before his vision swims dangerously and he has to slam a palm against the wall to steady himself.

 

He passes out anyway.

 

The last thing he sees, as his world collapses around him, is Ren rushing forward in a flurry of black.

 

Then, nothing.

 

Nothing at all.

 

He comes to in a bed that is not his own. The sheets are too slippery, like silk or satin. He feels depleted in that all too familiar way he always is after an attack. He reaches out blindly for a glass of water before he remembers, once again, that he is not in his own bed. He cracks one eye open, sees Ren sitting cross-legged on a low couch in front of the viewport. It all comes flooding back, and Hux almost faints again at the memory. He wills himself to sit up straight instead. He takes a moment to take stock of himself: his greatcoat is missing, but everything else seems to be in order. There’s a painful tension in his limbs, his mouth tastes vaguely of blood, and his uniform is plastered to his skin from all the sweat, but other than that, he’s fine. Wait, his hat—

 

Ren smiles, gentle and open, and holds up Hux’s hat before placing it back down on the couch beside him. Hux can see that his greatcoat is folded there, too. Neatly, even. He is immediately suspicious. What is Ren playing at?

 

“No game,” Ren answers, his tone flat and to the point. Hux wonders if Ren read the question in his features, or pulled it from his mind. Both are rather distasteful prospects, but the former is slightly less horrifying.

 

Realizing suddenly that he’s just sitting in Ren’s bed, tangled up in the ostentatious (and black, _of course_ ) sheets, Hux scrambles up and begins righting his appearance. He stands beside the bed, righting his uniform and smoothing down his hair as best he can without any gel. He keeps expecting Ren to laugh, say something cruel, or threaten to expose him, but Ren just sits there, eerily calm and radiating a strange…something. Hux isn’t sure what to call it; it isn’t something that’s familiar to him.

 

Ren answers for him. “It’s called support, Hux. I’m being supportive.”

 

Hux just gapes at him, hands frozen in the act of fixing a button on his tunic.

 

A thousand questions and observations run through his mind, and he can’t decide what to verbalize. Ren saves him the trouble of responding.

 

“You know I grew up in the Republic, right?” Ren says it conversationally. Hux just nods, sititng back down on the bed to adjust his boots. Ren shrugs slightly, a pinched look coming over his face for just a moment, as if recalling a distasteful memory. “You know who my parents are, I don’t have to tell you.” Hux nods again, unsure why Ren is telling him this. He already knows all about Ben Solo. Snoke filled him in ages ago, and Ren himself has mentioned it once or twice, when they were drunk together, just enough to be friendly, but before they drank more and got competitive again.

 

“So you must realize I grew up with a magnifier on my every word, action, gesture, _thought_.” Ren says. Hux lets go of his boot, attention piqued.

 

“Yes,” he says, and is pleased to note that his voice isn’t wavering anymore.

 

“I know what it’s like,” Ren says, and spreads his hands wide, as if it were that simple.

 

Seeing that Hux is still uncertain, Ren clarifies. “That’s why I helped you, Armitage.” Hux winces at the use of his given name, but he doesn’t say anything. He’d like to see where Ren is going with this, actually. So he sits still and listens, and if his eyes are still on his boots, well, at least his spine is straight; that’s really the best he can manage at the moment. He’s still sick with embarrassment on this inside, playing back every minute detail, even as he listens to Ren talk.

 

“I’m not going to turn you in, Hux,” he says. “I won’t out you. I know what it’s like to live with crippling…” he trails off. Hux appreciates the lack of verbalization. He doesn’t want his weakness named.

 

“And anyway,” he continues, and Hux flinches a little in shock as Ren pushes up off the couch and comes to crouch directly in front of him. He can see the edges of Ren’s robes touching his own boots, and it’s mesmerizing. He can’t look away. He should _want_ to. But…he doesn’t.

 

“Listen to me, Hux,” Ren says, so softly. “I…” He trails off, but rallies with a determined look up at Hux. “Listen, you will _never_ hear this from me again, okay?” Hux nods without realizing he’s doing it. The close contact is making him a little nervous, and he clenches his muscles tightly in an attempt to contain the itchy feeling under his skin. He can feel Ren looking up at him, but he keeps his own eyes firmly glued to the floor, where Ren’s robes are touching his boots. Eye contact is too…intimate, too much. Hux would never admit it out loud, but it’s one of his favorite parts of command. People assume his behavior is disdainful, when in fact he avoids things like eye contact and Friday night drinks because they make him intensely uncomfortable. It’s a secret he had intended to take to the grave – until now. Damn Ren and his overly expressive face and his big hands and his comforting tone-

 

Ren is speaking again, his voice pitched low and earnest. “Hux,” Ren says, and Hux’s mouth falls open at the admission, “I _admire_ you.” Hux looks disbelieving, so Ren rushes on. “No, really, I do. You are so controlled, so accomplished, and I genuinely admire your discipline and your achievements. But Hux,” and here is comes, Hux thinks, here it comes. Instead, Ren surprises him. “No man is an island. Not even a Force-user.” Ren ducks his head at the admission, but then his gaze is back on Hux, and he plows on. “It’s almost no wonder you have this…problem…you never, ever give anything to yourself.”

 

Hux is confused, and he can feel his cheeks burning as he worries he’s being outmaneuvered. Ren lays a hand on Hux’s knee, making him jump as a rush of heat floods his system. Hux does shift his weight this time, squirming in the most dignified way possible, picking at a nonexistent blemish on his boots to cover the movement.

 

“I- I think –” This time, Ren’s gaze does falter, and it doesn’t come back up. Hux doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed at this. He feels more than hears Ren swallow, hard, and the whole room starts to spin a little. At first, Hux thinks it’s him, thinks he’s having an attack again, but then he realizes that it’s Ren, that _he’s_ nervous, and that, as powerful as Ren is, his disorientation is causing the room to physically vibrate a little bit.

 

“Sorry,” Ren says, head still bowed.

 

Something strange and utterly foreign squeezes in Hux’s chest. He decides that if violence is to always be met with violence, scheming with scheming, and hard work with even harder work, then perhaps kindness should be met with kindess, as well. He slides off the bed, graceful despite his recent experience, and finds himself knees-to-knees with Ren. He gently takes Ren’s chin in one gloved hand, and lifts it. What he sees in those eyes almost blows him away. Ren’s pupils are so wide as to be almost black, but at the same time, he’s shaking a little, a full body thing, and Hux knows that one well. He puts a hand on Ren’s shoulder to steady him. Ren looks him full in the face, huge eyes wide and trusting, and jaw set decsivsely.

 

“I think I could teach you some things, Armitage,” he says, and then braces like he’s waiting for a slap. When it doesn’t come, he finishes, eyes screwed shut as if against some onslaught. “I think you could teach me some things, too.”

 

Hux smiles, big and feral and somehow completely out of his control. “I think we could both teach each other some things, _Kylo_.”

 

And then they are both moving, surging together at the same time, mouths meeting as their teeth clink and Hux has to reach out and readjust the angle of Kylo’s head to accommodate his rather large nose, but once that’s done, their tongues touch and it’s _magic._ It’s everything Hux has ever heard about, and nothing he has ever had. From the way Kylo’s right hand is grasping against his hip, convulsive, Hux guesses that it’s the same for Kylo, too.

 

Hux smiles a little as he pulls back, admiring the way Kylo’s lips are swollen and red, and his long dark hair is a complete mess. “So,” Hux says, “if you teach me to relax, I’ll teach you to be very… _very_ …bad.” Hux punctuates each word with a slide closer to Kylo, until he’s straddling his lap on the floor.

 

“We can talk about our pasts later,” Hux says. “I do think it would be beneficial to do so. It would make us both more efficient if we were able to let go of certain things, gain support for others.” Kylo nods, and Hux can see him shaking. Hux realizes that he is, too, albeit for entirely different reasons than earlier in the cooridor.

 

“For now,” Hux says, since Kylo seems too far gone to speak anymore, mouthing at Hux’s neck just above his uniform collar and rutting rather shamelessly against his jodhpurs, “let’s go for a different kind of therapy…”

 

Kylo lunges forward, effectively tackling Hux to the floor. He’s shocked and a little ashamed by how much he likes it, this huge and powerful body lying on top of him, pinning him down with superior weight and strength and size. But they are evenly matched, after all:

 

“Recite the speech for me again,” Kylo gasps against him, and it’s clear that he’s not asking, he’s begging. Hux smirks, grabs for Kylo’s huge thighs, and starts to speak, voice ringing out clear and authoratitive, marred only by the occasional gasps he can’t quite stifle as Kylo slides down his body.

 

“ _Today is the end of the Republic. The end of a regime that acquiesces to disorder. At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic lies to the galaxy while secretly supporting the treachery of the loathsome Resistance.”_

 

Suddenly, Kylo stops him, urging him to stand up, and goes to fetch the greatcoat and that hat. “Put them on,” he rasps, and Hux can’t bring himself to argue. He dons his affects, spreads his legs, and tucks his hands behind his back in a slightly more provocative version of parade rest.

 

Kylo drops to his knees, eyes daring Hux to keep going.

 

_“This fierce machine which you have built, upon which we stand, will bring an end to the Senate, to their cherished fleet._

His voice falters as Kylo unzips him and leans in, his large lips obscene, eyes wet and looking up at him like some sort of supplicant.

Hux tries to keep talking.

 

_“All - all remaining s-systems will - will bow to-to-to…”_

Hux doesn’t finish. Instead, he screams, the sound piecing and animalistic and like nothing he has ever heard come out of himself before in his life. It’s the best thing he has ever felt.

 

He finishes the speech in a hoarse whisper, all he can manage, one hand in Kylo’s hair and the other pressed against the wall behind him, holding him up as Kylo ruts and ruts and then comes hard against the polished toe of his left boot.

_“…the First Order and will remember this as the last day of the Republic…”_

Kylo looks up at him, smirking, and with brutal eye contact speaks the last line, utterly depraved and filthy and so, so satisfying:

_“Fire.”_


End file.
